


Murderers and Other Friends

by Rector



Series: Mycroft: The Early Years [2]
Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: Gen, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft-centric, POV Mycroft Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-16 12:10:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8101924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rector/pseuds/Rector
Summary: Another story from Mycroft's early years.





	1. Worries financial

I have a small white scar over the fifth rib on my left side. It was put there by a friend who tried to kill me; a dagger through the heart being her impulsive preference. I didn't do anything about it afterwards, not that I was used to having people attempt my murder, but her intentions had been good. In many ways, it was my fault as it was I who had insisted she accompany me to look at a flat.

###

I was the recently-appointed Deputy Director in a special government think-tank based in Whitehall. Our little department had various names, none of them terribly respectful and at least one my mother would never hear. Not that it really mattered. I worked under the auspices of Sir David Bonneville, an amazing man, who had held his role for a number of years but now in his early seventies, had decided the time was approaching for him to retire. For this, he required a successor able to perform the same mental and intellectual legerdemain for which the department had become legend, and he had chosen me. Though not a physically large man, his shoes would be enormously difficult to fill, a fact I was already discovering.

It was now mid-June and I'd been working in London since January, finding my way around the place in every sense of the word. I had been given the use of an apartment in a government-owned building just off Pall Mall, though it was like no government property one might ordinarily expect. It was a wonderful flat, close to my usual place of work, large, serviced and discreet. It had everything a single man might desire of a town residence. The one thing that rankled early on and continued to do so, was that I could not realistically expect any true sense of privacy. It had become quite the thing recently for people to leave items or papers at my flat during the evening for me to bring into the office the next morning. This had ranged from some confidential papers in a neat attaché case, to a replacement encryptable fax machine which weighed a bloody ton. You might consider such expectations of me to be minor and, in the larger picture, they probably were. But I was becoming less and less happy about complete strangers being able to access my dwelling as if by right. By the beginning of June, five months after I had moved in, I was seriously looking for a way to move out. There were, however, certain proscriptions upon my choice of residence.

The first issue was proximity to Whitehall. Bonneville had made it clear at the outset that my presence would very likely be needed in the office at all hours and he had not lied. In my very first week, I spent almost three days living in his office while he required a brief stay in hospital. Fortunately, not even a minor heart-attack could keep the man down and he relieved me from my post by the third evening. It was good to live only a matter of minutes away as I was almost dead on my feet before I arrived home. After a proper night's rest, I returned to the office and persuaded Bonneville to go home and recuperate for at least another week. We agreed that I would work at his desk during the day as I had been doing, returning to my flat in the evening, and he would keep one of the new mobile phones with him at all times. The arrangement was gratifyingly productive for both of us, and worked well. It would not have worked so well had I been resident in Wood Green or even Richmond.

The second concern was that of suitability. I was a young, single, Civil Servant in a position of quite some responsibility. I rarely knew with whom I might be meeting on any given day since the function of Sir David's office, and by default, _my_ office, was unique and never routine. Already, I was handling a number of delicate political negotiations with several deputy Heads of State and, on one occasion, the Norwegian Prime Minister. His Excellency was concerned at first by my youth, but this ended once I began discussing the problems surrounding current relations with Sweden. As a lawyer, the Prime Minister immediately went on the defensive and all concerns over my age vanished like mist in the hot sun. Given that I was never sure what occasion might be demanded of me, I had taken a leaf from Sir David's impeccable style and was now the satisfied owner of several irreproachable bespoke suits. I would not wish these rather expensive racehorses of male couture to be stabled in anything less than perfect conditions.

Next on the list was the fact that I lacked any inclination to find a 'doer-upper'. My parents might have fallen upon a low-priced gem with inarticulate cries of joy, but frankly, there was nothing about putty and undercoats of paint that had me enthralled. I had no interest in robbing tradespeople of their livelihood, nor did I have the time to fret over swatches of curtain fabric or bedlinens or light-fittings. My new job paid me very handsomely and I was fully prepared to take on substantial financial responsibility if it would give me what I wanted.

Which brought me to the final concern; that of money. London had never been the cheapest place to purchase a property but I was determined to do so; renting, and all the lack of true privacy that went with such an arrangement, was not for me if it could be avoided. There were two things standing in my favour here. Even before I came to London, I had a relatively substantial sum in cash; monies willingly paid to me in return for a few pages of neatly-written study notes at Oxford. The amounts offered for such scribbles had been excessive but I had long believed in the freedom of the _laissez faire_ marketplace and was entirely happy to charge all that market would bear. Consequentially, I had close on fifteen thousand in the bank before I boarded the London train from Oxford. Additionally, since that time, living rent-free in a government flat while being paid an unexpectedly high remuneration, I had managed, even with my new clothes and other expenses, to squirrel away a further twenty-thousand pounds. This, plus a small inheritance I'd received from an elderly uncle less than a year before, meant I had just over forty-thousand to my name. A substantial amount in 1990; it would have entirely paid for a large house in some areas of Greater London. But I wanted to live in _central_ London, in Westminster if I possibly could, and I had no real desire for a house with all the upkeep that entailed; a nice flat would be much more suitable.

And this then, was the final issue. Flats, even small ones, in the geographical area of my preference were already fetching astronomical amounts. For the type of residence I sought, I was going to have to shell out upwards of one-hundred-and-fifty thousand pounds. This was a not inconsiderable sum and I had decided not to mention this to the parents just yet as I was certain Mummy would have a blue fit.

However, I was moderately determined on my course of action and had taken to looking in the windows of several local real-estate businesses. There were a number of houses for sale in the region of Piccadilly and Leicester Square, but I really had my sights set on something in the same area in which I was currently living; somewhere in or near Pall Mall. It was on the Monday of a new week that several interesting incidents eventuated.

The first of these occurrences took place during my morning walk to the office as I passed one particular estate agent not far from the Old Clarence pub on the corner of Great Scotland Yard Road. According to a window poster that had not been there the previous evening, there was an entire building comprising of four, completely self-contained, three-bedroom flats newly on the market. The top floor possessed a roof garden and an excellent view. It was less than four minutes on foot from the flat where I currently lived. Without a second thought, I stepped into the just-opened office and walked up to the wall containing larger pictures of the property.

There was a rather lovely old front entrance with a Victorian revolving door, all brass and black lead paint. The small ground-floor foyer had been laid out and tiled in the _Art Deco_ period, placing the original build somewhere around the 1920s; the black-and white floor tiles as crisp and elegant as they were seventy years before. There was a concierge at a reception desk and a small lift. So far, everything seemed most germane to my needs.

"May I assist you, sir?" the estate agent himself stood beside me. I saw his gaze light on my suit, glossy shoes and umbrella before it hit my face. He knew before I opened my mouth that I wasn't simply browsing.

"Forty-Two Pall Mall," I nodded at the large colour photographs. "Tell me about the properties there please."

"Indeed, sir," the man didn't quite fall into a Dickensian grovel, but it was a close thing. "A new properly just come on the market yesterday. Something for our most discerning clients, I believe, though I don't think I've had the pleasure of seeing you in here before, _Mr_ ...?"

"Holmes," I said, my eyes still on the photographs. "Are there any floor plans available?"

He scurried off to fetch several photocopied sheets, one for each of the four flats. The lower three were fairly similar in size and layout, the only difference being in the size of the bedrooms. Naturally, I wouldn't need three bedrooms, though I would need an office. It might be pleasant to have one with a window in it too, given that I spent so many hours at my desk these days. The top floor was, of course, the most expensive, but then it did boast some spectacular views towards St James's Park. However, I was not terribly interested in views, though I was very much interested in the flat on the third floor.

The main bedroom possessed an ensuite, something I'd rather grown to appreciate since living in my current billet. Of the two remaining bedrooms, the larger was at the rear of the property and thus away from the bustle of the main road at the front of the building. It would be both more private and quiet, yet it would still have a window with daylight and occasional sunshine. The rest of the flat seemed to be perfect. A large, open-plan lounge and dining area; a neat kitchen and laundry and a separate bathroom. The asking price printed neatly and discreetly on the bottom of the page suggested the discerning buyer would expect to invest an amount in the region of one-hundred and seventy thousand pounds for such a magnificent property. It would do.

"I'd like to see this one, please," I held out the floor-plan for the third-floor flat. "As soon as possible."

"But of course, Mr Holmes," the man's version of Uriah Heep was both uncanny and vaguely repellent. "Would later today suit?" he checked the large wall clock. "My senior assistant would be free to escort you around the property any time after eleven this morning, if that might be satisfactory?"

I had no crucial meetings pencilled in my diary for this morning, though that state of affairs was often subject to change without notice. I had to verify my situation with Bonneville first.

"My office is in Whitehall; I will ensure I'm free later this morning, but I'd prefer to check before I commit to anything. You have a card?"

As soon as he heard 'Whitehall', the man barely restrained himself from tugging a non-existent forelock. A black-and-gold embossed card was produced with all haste as I handed him my own less ornate version.

"I shall be hearing from you shortly then, Mr Holmes?" the man whose card revealed him to be both the owner and proprietor of the agency, managed not to grin. Had my head not been filled with thoughts of privacy and ownership, I would have noticed the slyness of it.

###

"Precipitous?" Sir David sipped his mid-morning tea and favoured me with a single raised eyebrow.

"Hardly," I said nothing else but smiled behind my teacup. It had become a little game for us; to see how much information might be inferred from the minimum amount of detail supplied. Today was turning out to be unexpectedly quiet and we had time to continue my education.

"Financially sound?" Sir David was clearly concerned that either my desire for such a high-value asset, or the deal itself might be a step too far. If anyone knew the cost of property in London, it was he. In addition to assisting the British Government with the detangling and maintenance of its endless operational dilemmas, he was also something of a property whiz, snapping up parcels of land in such outlying boroughs as Bromley and Enfield, though why anyone would want to live that far out in the country was a mystery, it was all fields.

"Naturally," I risked a Rich Tea biscuit.

"Mortgage?" Bonneville nibbled the edge of his digestive and looked at me beneath lowered eyelids.

Trust Sir David to hit upon the one nagging flaw in my plan. Of course, I understood the essential technicalities of obtaining a mortgage but simply had not gotten around to going through the motions. And if I liked the flat I was going to view immediately upon finishing my tea, I would need to be able to make an offer swiftly; despite the price, places such as these did not hang around for long in central London. The other thing that might be an issue was my lack of a credit history which, in addition with my comparative youth was not the most auspicious combination at a time when mortgages were hard to get and interest rates as high as fifteen percent. Even with my generous pay, it would take a sizeable chunk from my monthly salary, though I would still be able to afford the lifestyle to which I was rapidly becoming accustomed. I could only hope the banks would look upon me with favour.

As if reading my thoughts, and I am fairly confident by this time that Bonneville actually could, he pointed half a biscuit at me and closed one eye. "Solicitor?"

I frowned at the realisation I would also need a legal representative to work through the machinations of the British conveyancing system. Other than one or two of my fellow graduates at Oxford and the few colleagues in the office I knew to have a legal background, I had no connection to any qualified legal person.

Sir David began to laugh. "Mycroft, you are transparent," he finished his tea, turned to his desk, opening the wide central drawer. Fishing out an elegant business card with fine black print, he skimmed it across the table to me. _Metro Mortgage Brokers_. "A small financial organisation with whom I occasionally conduct business for my own private concerns," he said generally. "Mention I sent you and they may be able to organise something that meets your needs."

By this stage in our relationship, I had developed an unshakable trust in Bonneville's business acumen, not to mention the man's vast network of contacts, that any thought of talking to the banks vanished almost instantly. If he used such an organisation himself, then I knew without question it was trustworthy, discreet and did not lack for lendable funds.

"And as for your requiring a solicitor to complete the various property searches, draw up the contract and arrange the transfer of funds, did you never stop to consider what it was I actually studied at Merton all those long years ago?" I felt a weight slide from my shoulders, of course; Bonneville had read Law.

"Did you sit the bar?"

"I did, for my trouble," Sir David lit a cigarette. "Complete waste of time, of course," he blinked slowly. "Felt I should complete the thing after all the study, not that it ever did me any good."

"You are legally qualified to practice?" I wondered how many other qualifications my mentor had secreted away.

"Never took up a Pupillage, but am a legitimate solicitor," Bonneville leaned over towards me, a faint smile on his lips. "And it would provide me with the greatest amusement to convey your new acquisition for you," there was a light in his eyes. "To make use of the blasted knowledge at least once after all these years would vindicate some of the effort ... what do you say, eh?"

Sir David, a qualified barrister, was offering to act as my solicitor? I could hardly refuse. There was only one thing left for me to do.

"Would you like to come and see the place?" the invitation was thrown airily into the conversation without expectation. "I'd planned to have a look at it this morning."

The advent of these new compact mobile phones were changing the way everyone worked and neither of us needed to be chained to our desks any more. Bonneville tapped the intercom to his Executive assistant who had her own office on the opposite side of Sir David's office to my own.

"Just popping out for a while, Victoria," he stood, extinguishing the cigarette. "Call me if needed. Mycroft and I have some legal matters to discuss."

"Certainly, Sir David," the woman's quiet efficiency was reflected in her voice. "Will you return before lunch?"

"Possibly not," Bonneville looked rather cheerful. "The sun is shining and it's a lovely day. We won't be needing the car."

The day was indeed turning out to be very pleasant and a stroll along Whitehall's wide Yorkstone pavements was not an intolerable activity. Within five minutes, we had reached the real estate agents and for a moment the both of us stared into the wide shining windows and the great shining icons of conspicuous consumption.

"This one," I pointed to the large photograph that had caught my attention earlier. I felt a small thrill tingle down my spine as I re-contemplated my first venture into property.

"Seems suitable," Bonneville sniffed and stepped into the shop.

Uriah Heep, masquerading under the commercial _nom de plume_ of William Smith  & Son, was no less sycophantic on this second visit, though now there were the two of us around which to fawn. Clearly the notion of a major commission was a temptation not even the strongest of self-dignities could withstand. Fortunately, Bonneville would not tolerate Smith's toadying

" _This_ ," turning to face Smith, Sir David wasted no time as he tapped the photograph on the wall. "Is an _excessive_ price for such a property, even in the locale," he said, peering at the estate agent through narrowed eyes. "As Mr Holmes' legal representative, I warn you, I shall leave no stone unturned in my efforts to discover any and all encumbrances upon the property, including a brine and drainage search, a coal-mining search, conservation, easement, subsidence and Land registry investigations, and any wayleave agreements that may be in place at this time," he glowered faintly at the agent who had stopped trying to ingratiate himself and had begun to look genuinely worried. Even though Sir David was not physically large, his approach to all potential problems was simply enormous. Managing to maintain a deadly straight face, I watched the _Maestro_ at work. Even his diction was magnificent.

"It is a fair price," Smith valiantly attempted to regroup.

"It is a _unconscionable_ and _unprincipled_ price," Bonneville was warming up. "Given the usurious interest rates currently darkening our green and pleasant land, such inexcusable inflation of the selling-price advises me to pay extremely close attention to all deeds, covenants and contracts pertinent to the building," Sir David's voice dropped in volume as he leaned in closer to the agent. "The _entire_ building," he warned softly. Clearly something was happening here beyond my understanding, but the agent, his eyes wide, his gaze shuttling between Bonneville and I, swallowed hard.

"I'm sure some understanding might be reached with the, ah, _vendor_ ," William Smith wasn't actually wringing his hands yet but he was definitely twitching.

"I'm positive of it," Sir David smiled regally, holding out a palm. "The keys, if you please."

"If you can wait only a _few_ minutes more, sir," Smith's eyes grew wary. "I'll have my senior assistant take you both there himself and show you the third floor flat directly."

"We wish to see the _complete_ building and do not require a guide, a Sherpa or a chaperone," Bonneville's eyes narrowed again as he produced his card. "I shall return the keys as soon as my client and I have satisfied ourselves as to the particulars of the property and not a moment before," he looked pointedly at his empty hand then back to the agent.

Whether it was Bonneville's presence, pompousness or the sheer balls of his attitude, Smith's shoulders dropped and he nodded, walking over to his desk in the corner and returning with a well-stocked key ring.

"I shall be needing them back as soon as possible," Smith rallied himself, showing a little backbone. "I have other parties wishing to assess the properties later this afternoon."

Offering the man a small, tight smile, Sir David inclined his head before spinning on his heel and leaving the office. I didn't applaud, though it was tempting. We walked on in silence for several yards.

"Bit theatrical, do you think?" Sir David lit a cigarette and stared directly ahead.

"Not at all," I smiled. "Though it was quite the performance. I especially enjoyed the part about our green and pleasant land."

"Just so," he nodded in cheery satisfaction as we continued our late-morning stroll in the warmth of a June day.

Taking a short cut past Carlton House Terrace and my current residence in Carlton Gardens, we turned the corner into Pall Mall itself. The traffic was busier here, but the substantial buildings were all of Portland stone and bore themselves like ancient monuments. It would be peaceful inside, I knew this from the experience of my current flat.

And suddenly, we stood outside a black-painted Art Deco archway on the building's front entrance. It was more imposing than had seemed in the photograph; heftier and more substantial. There was something about it that satisfied some deep need in me for history and permanence. Of course, the place was entirely locked up but with uncanny precision, Sir David selected the correct key and had us inside in a matter of seconds.

The tiled foyer was everything I had imagined it to be. Clean lines and an unfussy presence. The uninhabited concierge's desk was over towards the left wall while the small lift and marble staircase were on the right.

"I think we can dismiss the flats on the first two floors, don't you?" Bonneville peered at me over the rims of a small pair of reading-glasses he'd pulled on, all the better to read the details of the floor plans.

"Because the first floor is too easy a target for intruders and the second has none of the benefits of either the higher or the lower flats?" I questioned, moderately sure of my reasoning.

"Because both of them have their main bedrooms facing directly across the street towards a small dance studio," Sir David raised an eyebrow. "You need to go higher."

"It's actually the third floor that interests me," I said, pressing the lift button, pleased when it opened with a low, melodic _ding_.

Examining the photocopied plan of the third floor flat, Bonneville hummed softly to himself, no doubt considering a great many things that had yet to occur to me.

"It has everything I need," I offered. "The location is perfect, it's of a sufficient size and I can afford the mortgage repayments. I have approximately forty-thousand I can put down as a deposit, though I realise the lack of any credit history or long-term savings is against me," I frowned, wondering if it would be enough. Given the precarious state of mortgage funds in the country, London mortgages were not easy to get.

"Hmm?" Bonneville looked at me with slightly raised eyebrows. "These are not the immediate issues you should be considering, Mycroft," he advised cryptically.

Then what _was_ I supposed to be considering?

The lift stopped at the third floor and we exited into a small private foyer. As there was no window in this internal space, it was dimly lit, though I was sure a brighter light could easily be installed. Handing me the keys from the agent, Sir David waved me towards the front door of the apartment.

As the key entered the lock for the first time, I confess to experiencing a small thrill. This might possibly become my first owned home. The door opened and a flood of bright sunshine lit my way into the flat. Immediately more cheerful, I could see that the main door opened almost directly into the living room, with a clear line of sight into both the kitchen and the dining area. The high ceilings and generous dimensions of the equally high windows were instantly satisfying. The period features of geometric plaster patterns on the ceiling, the wide skirting boards and the gloriously polished wood floors with a darker wood design around the walls. There was a wonderful authentic deco fireplace converted to gas and with every additional detail I felt more and more at home.

Sir David returned from examining the kitchen with its highly polished cabinets, though his expression was unhelpful. He walked out into the small hallway without comment, apparently intent on seeing the rest of the accommodation. I followed, heading to the main bedroom at the front of the property. As Bonneville had warned, there was indeed a dance studio in the building across the road. If they ran at night, the noise might be enough to irritate anyone living on the lower floors.

The main bedroom was acceptable; not as large as the one in my current borrowed flat, but it would be sufficient. I was about to walk down to the other end to see where I'd thought to have my office when Sir David came striding back, a faint frown between his eyes.

"This will not do at all, Mycroft," he shook his head. "You will need a much larger room for your office and this flat certainly does not afford you that necessity. Upwards!" he pointed dramatically towards the ceiling. "We must ascend!"

About to point out that if I barely had the funds for this, significantly less expensive apartment, I had hell's own chance of affording the penthouse suite, but I followed my mentor anyway. The lift _dinged_ and we stepped out into a similar foyer as the one below, though the experience this time was entirely different. Natural brightness from a cleverly positioned skylight picked out the intriguingly octagonal shape of the small space, showing off both the decorative cornice and the beautifully tiled floor to excellent advantage. The head of the marble staircase was immediately to the right of the lift, with broad Corinthian columns in a deco rendering, topped with thick Carrara marble plinths. The door looked different from the one downstairs; this one having more character, displaying a fine and complex border and a shining octagonal silver handle, the doorway itself topped with a geometric sunburst pattern. It was altogether of a higher quality and we hadn't even entered the flat yet. Locating the appropriately numbered key, I swung the door inwards and stopped short at the vision of stylishness before me.

The first thing that struck me was sheer amount of space and light. As it was on the top floor, there was unobstructed light coming in from windows and skylights at both front and rear. The apartment's central passageway was broad, blending into the living room and dining area with a sweep of fantastically polished wooden floorboards of some dark grained timber. Each of the tall narrow windows had the same geometric half-sun above them embossed into the white plaster so that the effect was one of subtlety rather than ornamentation. The kitchen was larger than I had expected, with twinned deep white sinks and the recurring sunburst _motif_ above the windows. The two largest bedrooms were side-by-side at the front of the dwelling overlooking Pall Mall itself, with partial views down to St. James's Park. This high up, the sounds from the street were attenuated and distant; audible but untroubling.

Stepping into the master bedroom, the first thing I saw was the heavy sliding wall of glass separating the room from the world outside. A long but narrow balcony, just sufficiently wide for a café table and a couple of chairs, sat waiting. I immediately imagined myself having tea out there on a fine summer's morning with the paper ... Frowning, I stopped the images. I could not afford this and it would not do at all to pretend otherwise. Perhaps it was another of Bonneville's little tests of which he was so fond _; throw Mycroft into a strange situation and see how he reacts_.

There was a classically-styled ensuite in the same white Carrara marble as in the foyer; the well-appointed bathroom gleaming in chrome and white stone and shining tiles. I saw the same high standard of finish throughout, but stepped into the adjacent bedroom just to rub the impossibility of it, like salt, deeper into my skin. This room, ostensibly a bedroom, was almost as large as the master suite though lacking a bathroom. It too had a wall of glass dividing it from the word beyond though the view from this window was more of the London skyline. Still airy and light but less distracting. It would have been perfect for my office.

There was another bathroom, somewhat more central in the apartment, which continued the theme of chrome and marble, followed by a third bedroom at the rear of the property, smaller but not impossibly so. There was also a tiny separate laundry with an external door leading out onto an equally tiny roofed-in, hidden balcony, scarcely more than four feet wide, running the entire breadth of the apartment. There were several drying lines and built-in storage cabinets.

"Well, this is all very pleasant," my voice sounded vinegary even to my own ears. "And it has certainly been an education, but as I simply cannot afford this much money ..." I stopped short as Sir David held up a peremptory hand.

"My dear boy, you don't think for one moment I'd bring you up here if I wasn't utterly _positive_ I could negotiate an arrangement suitable to all parties?"

"The flat downstairs is as much as I can realistically afford, and this one ..." I looked around at the elegant wonders of a golden time long past. "This has to be a significantly greater investment."

"Leave all that to me," Bonneville waved an airy hand. "The key question is, do you _like_ the place?"

 _Did I like it?_ It was something far beyond anything I had expected or looked for. It was a habitat I found superbly comfortable and stylish and which could supply me with everything I had considered I might want. In short, it was perfect.

"I like it very much," I nodded slowly. "It's magnificent."

"Then as your legal representative, I ask you to leave negotiations in my hands and I will bend my not-inconsiderable will into achieving a mutually agreeable solution for everyone, at which point you will be able to return your concentration to the appropriate place."

Though these last words were spoken without heat, I felt their weight. Had I been guilty of losing my focus? I hadn't thought so, but I was not the most objective judge. I supposed I hadn't been terribly subtle about wanting to find a place of my own. I would need to work harder in future to keep my private desires exactly that; if Bonneville could see I was distracted, then so could others. Keeping my own counsel, I followed Sir David back into the lift and down to the ground floor where we exited, locked the place up and began retracing our steps to the real estate agent's office.

"There is one more thing I am going to ask you to do, Mycroft," Bonneville maintained a steady stride. "I'm going to introduce you to Nari Kim, a young woman from South Korea. Ms Kim is an expert in interior design and happens to have recently been involved in the restoration of one of London's most important Art Deco buildings, Eltham Palace in Greenwich."

I held my peace, knowing there was more.

"Ms Kim needs additional experience in the domestic market in order to establish herself as a consultant in this country and you would be doing both of us a sizable favour by allowing the lady to assist you in furnishing and decorating your new flat once you have moved in."

There was still something else. Bonneville dearly enjoyed his little subterfuges.

"Ms Kim is in London to work as an interior designer?"

Sir David turned to face me, smiling deliberately and tilting his head as if I was being particularly slow.

"Of course not," he said. "Ms Nari Kim is a North Korean spy and is undoubtedly in London to entice selected individuals into her network. I want her to seduce you, Mycroft."


	2. An expensive hobby

I was fairly certain Sir David was not speaking in the biblical sense, though I mused over the idea of sex as we returned to Whitehall. I could only imagine he wanted me on the inside of Kim's network in order that I might discover who else was in there with me. It made perfect sense from a certain point of view. The problem was, I had scarcely any idea of how to _be_ seduced.

At university, there had been little time for exploration of topics beyond those on my curriculum and though I had shared a few noteworthy social occasions, there was nothing one might point at and call a _seduction_. Alcohol and dimmed lights were the unhelpful common denominators in most of the inexpert _liaisons_ that took place within the hallowed halls of Oxford. On a few memorable occasions, as I recalled with spectacular clarity, the inexpert had been me. And on each of those several, somewhat perplexing and disorienting encounters, I had been the initiator, experimenting more for the sake of it than for genuine attraction or physical gratification. In one's youth, it is difficult to ignore sex entirely and I didn't entirely try; memories of Claire, Zoe, Sharon and Paul appeared and disappeared just as swiftly. However, no-one had felt so inclined as to attempt to seduce _me_ , and so I was unsure of how to prepare the appropriate reaction. And of course, there was always the faint possibility that Bonneville was wrong about the lady's potential interest.

The keys had been returned to a pathetically grateful estate agent and no more was said of the matter. I contacted Sir David's mortgage broker and a meeting was arranged the next day in Pimlico, though in truth, I held little expectation of success in achieving sufficient funds for the top-floor flat of Forty-two, Pall Mall.

Either way, this was not the place for me to be distracted by thoughts of embarking on capitalism's most expensive hobby. Seizing a hefty pile of printed UN reports, I began my usual review and analysis fully aware that the task would take me several long hours. Fortunately, fine summer evenings were beginning to extend each day by a measurable amount and there was still some greying daylight when I stood and stretched my back at seven that evening. Analysing these damnable reports was a tedious job, though now I'd been doing it for several months, I realised with a muted elation that it was becoming much easier to see beyond the verbosity and rhetoric, down into the heart of the few real issues in each report. There might be ten thousand words of nothing, surrounding one slender but critical fact. The early reports had each taken me the best part of an hour or more to wade through. I currently had it down to just under fifteen minutes. In a few years, I hoped to be as good as Bonneville who could predict, with a remarkable level of accuracy, the precise fact each report would contain. Sometimes, he even got the page right.

Bonneville had left twenty minutes earlier than I and so I headed out alone, walking briskly towards what had become one of my favourite watering holes in nearby London. _The Admiralty_ pub just off Trafalgar Square was a little touristy, but their upstairs dining area was usually not horribly busy in the early evening and they did a range of savoury pies that even my mother could not fault. The kitchen in my current flat was perfectly serviceable and I could easily have bought the necessary items to feed myself. It was not money I was short of but time and inclination.

Heading to my usual place at one of the smaller tables on the mezzanine level of the pub, it was impossible to ignore the woman seated in the middle of the half-filled dining area. Already attracting a number of less-than-covert glances from the predominantly male pre-dinner crowd, she was a most unexpected addition to the evening's dining experience. Asian, in her early thirties and extraordinarily beautiful. I noted she was flawlessly groomed and dressed in a burgundy business suit on the _chic_ side of professional, wearing Louboutin. Her dark hair gleamed in a complex chignon and ruby earrings glinted in the first lights of evening. Her cosmetics were subtle yet effective and her posture that of a mildly relaxed panther. She had exceptional legs. I took a seat and realised she was staring, quite unabashedly, at me. As I met her eyes, she took another a sip of her cocktail and smiled even more widely.

I smiled back, realising that the game had begun. In his usual cryptic manner, Bonneville had told me nothing about Nari Kim other than that she was a North Korean spy and an expert in interior design. Given that no other gorgeous and glamourous Asian women had ever smiled at me quite so extravagantly in public, I was fairly confident this was she. Clearly, she knew who I was in order to be waiting here for me at this time. By the fact I had returned her opening salvo, the lady, assuming she was worth her salt as an agent, would realise that I knew who she was and that our first meeting was off to a flying start.

I ordered the evening's special pie of smoked fish and cider as I waited for Ms Kim to make her move. The waiter had barely stepped beyond earshot before she brought herself and her half-finished gin-and-tonic to my side.

"May I join you?" her accent was exotic yet not overly so. While learning Mandarin and more recently, Japanese, I had heard much more foreign pronunciations. My father would have been proud of the gentleman he'd raised as I stood and gestured her to the seat opposite my own and offered her my hand. Her skin was soft and smooth against my own, her hand lost inside my long fingers. We sat. I waited.

"You are Mycroft Holmes?" she said, swirling the remains of her drink. "I recognise you for the description Sir David Bonneville gave me. He also said you would be here at this time for dinner."

Not knowing where I'd be heading for dinner myself until twenty minutes ago, I made a note not to be so predictable in the future. I would far rather turn up at unexpected moments and in unexpected places than be the sort of man whose every move was anticipated.

"You are very young to be working with Sir David," she added, narrowing her eyes fractionally. It was true; I was young but age was hardly the point.

"How do you do, Ms Kim. My name is Mycroft Holmes," I said, smiling politely and holding her gaze. "I'm told you know something about decorating."

The woman laughed, amused. "Perhaps not so young," she grinned and finished her drink. "And it's interior design," she looked at me sideways. "Nothing so pedestrian as decorating, these days," she turned, trying to catch the eye of one of the waiters, holding her empty glass aloft.

Young I might be, but I was at least a foot taller than she was and my arms were commensurately longer than hers. Lifting a finger in the air, I had a waiter at the table in seconds. I was rewarded with another brilliant smile and I wondered what Nari would be like in bed.

"Another G-and-T, please," she handed the glass over, taking the same moment to request the vegetarian dish of the day without bothering to ask what it was.

"And for you, sir?" the waiter looked at me. I rarely drank, and if I did, it was usually a glass of wine.

"I'll have the same," I nodded, returning my focus to the woman in front of me. Nari Kim was an utter stunner. The envious stares from around the room were almost palpable. My thoughts returned momentarily to sex.

"Sir David tells me you have just bought a new apartment," Kim leaned her arms on the table, close enough for me to get a whiff of some rather impressive perfume and a suggestion of cleavage.

"Not quite bought just yet," I sat back, removing myself from distraction. "I've found one I quite like, but there are the formalities to go through," I shrugged fractionally. "With luck, I should have something soon." Nari waited as the waiter placed our drinks on the table before frowning heavily and shaking her head.

"No," she frowned even more, a beautiful pout shaping her mouth. "Sir David was quite clear that you had chosen your apartment and would be in need of my services," she paused, digging into her bag, pulling out a note and a tiny pair of black-framed reading glasses. Wearing them, she looked like some fantasy librarian from one of the higher quality men's magazines.

"It is on the top floor of this place in Pall Mall," Nari peered at me over the top of her glasses as she turned the note for me to read. It gave the flat's exact address. I wondered what Bonneville knew about the situation that I did not.

"It _is_ a superb apartment, "I nodded, sampling my drink which was strong enough to burn the back of my throat. "But the financial details are incomplete, nor have I instructed a solicitor ..." I paused, realising I effectively _did_ have a solicitor working for me, though instructing Bonneville was not something I had actually considered doing. In fact, all he had really done so far was to ask me if I truly liked the flat ... was that enough for him to go off and begin the paperwork on my behalf? That he had already given Nari Kim the specific address suggested it was virtually a done deal. While I might not be an expert in the property market, I was reasonably certain there was more to buying a property than simply announcing I wanted it. I would clear the air with Sir David in the morning.

In the meanwhile, I was in a London pub, about to have dinner with a strikingly attractive, sophisticated female and I planned to discuss anything except business. Fortunately, our meals arrived simultaneously and talk moved to dining in London. It wasn't until we'd reached the coffee stage that I enquired how she knew such a man as Sir David Bonneville.

"Through mutual friends in the property business," she said. "Sir David thinks I'm a spy, you know," Nari sipped her cappuccino, roller her eyes and shook her head. "Of course, he's never actually said so, but I can tell," after several strong gins, she was becoming noticeably relaxed in her conversation. "All I ever wanted to do was make homes look wonderful," she sighed extensively, tilting her head so that the pub's light gleamed along her skin. "What is it you want to do, Mycroft?"

I thought of sex again.

"I have always enjoyed solving complex problems," I said, thoughtfully. "I like puzzles."

"Will you take me to see your new flat tonight," she lifted her eyes to mine and sounded hopeful.

"The keys are still at the agents," I shook my head. "Some other time, perhaps."

Nari Kim digested this notion, nodding slowly. "Then would you like to see _my_ flat tonight?" she said. "I have a number of ideas you might like."

"In your flat?"

"Of course, in my flat," she half-frowned at my tone. "Where else would I keep my best ideas?" It was clear she thought I wasn't totally convinced the invitation was genuine.

I could play along. "And where is your flat?" I kept my expression serious wondering all of a sudden, if Bonneville really _had_ considered a physical seduction necessary. The conversation was beginning to remind me of my university experiences. Unbidden, the image of a naked Nari Kim strewn languidly across a narrow student bed floated across my mind's eye. I forced my thoughts back to Bonneville's advice that she was a spy; really, my lack of control was becoming bothersome. I needed to focus.

"I'm renting a house in West Kensington from a friend," she swirled her drink. "It's in Ilchester Place," she checked her wristwatch. "A cab could get us there in about fifteen minutes."

Ilchester Place was a haunt of the seriously moneyed; only millionaires could afford West Kensington prices. I believe Sir David held property in the area. I immediately started to wonder who Ms Kim's wealthy friend might be; or if the whole thing was a convenient front for a North Korean safehouse; they'd have to have at least one in London, so why not in an exclusive suburb of the British capital? The very least I could do was go and see where she lived for myself. It was common sense to know one's enemy and it would be doing what Bonneville wanted, after all.

"Let's go," I stood, knocking back the last of my drink, heading to the till to pay for our meals and drinks. Nari waited for me, sliding her hand through my elbow as we left the building. The looks thrown in my direction were now unmistakably covetous and I tried not to wallow in the sensation, though not terribly hard. At that time of the evening, central London was crawling with cabs and we'd barely stepped out onto the pavement before one answered my hail. Following Nari's directions, the cabbie got us to the desired address in seventeen minutes flat, not bad, considering the traffic.

The house was on the spectacular side of grand. Exquisitely manicured green box hedges clipped to within a leaf of shaped and smoothed perfection, bordered the short pathway and steps up to the, frankly, imposing front door. The entire pathway was well-lit with wall-mounted carriage lights and with additional lights shining down from higher up beneath the eaves of the house. At a quick count, I observed no fewer than five CCTV cameras adorning the walls, eaves and roof-corners at the front of the house. Given that GCHQ had only begun to deploy such surveillance technology around major urban developments in the last few years, to see five such cameras on a _private_ dwelling was unexpected. Again, I wondered who Nari's friend was and how close to the current North Korean junta leadership this person actually was.

The whole street was blossoming in early summer's greenness. The avenue of tall mature trees were, even at this time of night, stately and beautiful. The air was fragrant with the scent of flowering shrubs and growing things. This would be a very pleasant place to live, I realised, even though the budget for such an address would be beyond my grasp for quite some time to come. Nari Kim was already as the front door, unlocking and throwing it open for me to enter as she stepped across to a discreet panel to one side of a large vase of flowers. A hidden little door revealed a neat house-alarm keypad on which she typed a five-series set of numbers to deactivate the system. It was not difficult to observe the pattern her movements created in selecting the buttons. I was fairly confident I would be able to duplicate the sequence if necessary.

"Home sweet home," Kim called out as she flicked on a bank of light-switches.

We were standing in the tiled lobby of a very elegant vestibule. Tall Georgian windows looked out onto the front of the property, while around the rear of the open space, there were four tall wooden doors, each framed with white plaster neo-classical Corinthian columns and pediment. In the centre of the double-height room and winding its way to the first floor was a gloriously sinuous staircase and beyond it, an unlit passageway leading, one presumed to the kitchen and what used to be the servants' quarters in the basement levels.

"There was a limit to what I was able to do with the place, it being Grade Two listed and all that," she beckoned me to follow her up the stairs. "But my friend gave me permission to redo the main salon on the first floor," she added, walking along the polished floor towards a pair of tall double-doors that were partly open. Throwing the doors wide and clicking on several lights, she stood just inside the entrance and watched the expression on my face. It was a very large room. There were four tall windows equidistant along one wall and an enormous fireplace in the centre of the narrow end near to where we stood. The whole shape of the room was Georgian in size, layout and character. But everything _inside_ the room was pure Art Deco.

Set out much as one might expect in either a gallery or a museum, Nari Kim had arranged display groups of furniture and accessories, each little group complete in and of itself. In one corner, there was a fabulous sideboard made of an incredible red wood, its front and side all figures with amazing details of inlay and shape. Two elegant wooden and cushioned chairs in a matching red wood stood either side of a coffee table, its top carrying the same inlay style and colours. By one of the windows, was a hallway table with incredible curved, chromed legs that seemed almost ancient Egyptian in their stylistic shapes. Beside it stood a resplendent curved sofa in a dark copper suede with matching side chairs. Everywhere I looked around the room, there were similar groupings of furniture arranged in ways that would not be out of place in a real room. It was only after my attention had been particularly taken by a modern pair of dark brown, almost black, leather armchairs, their curved arm rests and broad construction suggestive of great comfort, that I realised that at some point, I was going to have to furnish my new flat, wherever it was. And these two strikingly stylish chairs reminded me in some way of the feel of the Pall Mall apartment; something in the simple lines and clean curves. Masculine and yet elegant. I liked them immediately.

"These are lovely," Nari stood beside me, stroking the gleaming leather. "A modern interpretation of a 1920s classic," she flipped a price tag into view.

 _Christ_. I was going to need a separate mortgage just for the furniture. Kim must have seen the stilling of my features and interpreted correctly that I was in a mild state of shock.

"The best way to begin collecting classic furniture, especially if the budget is tight, is to get one or two really good pieces and build around them," she said, sinking voluptuously into the nearest of the two chairs, folding herself into its generous embrace. I could smell her perfume again and my pulse jumped traitorously. She pointed to the chair's twin. "Sit and see if it's comfortable for you."

I did as bidden and was very taken by the way the deep seat and curved back enveloped me as I sat. The scent of new leather and the high quality finish made the tagged price seem almost reasonable. The perceptive smile on Nari's face lent a certain sensuality to the experience. I felt a sudden heat in my veins.

"So you see, Mr Mycroft Holmes," she sounded simultaneously amused and triumphant. "I really am an expert in interior décor, specialising in antique era furniture and arrangement," she smiled in a superior way. "Now, would you like some tea or do you imagine I have an ulterior motive for that too?"

I felt it was safe to accept; how dangerous could tea be?

###

"Which is how I ended up in London," Nari uncrossed her legs and leaned forward with her empty tea cup. "The next thing I knew was that I had several phone calls after the exhibition in Seoul, asking me to consult on several large refurbishments; one in New York and two right here in London. I met Sir David at Eltham Palace," she paused, shrugging. "The rest is history."

"And the spy part?" I needed to show at least some curiosity in her earlier comment. To have ignored it completely would have been odd. "Why would Sir David consider you a spy?" Of course, I knew precisely why Bonneville would consider Nari Kim an operative, and a well-placed one at that. Anyone with a relatively unknown background who was suddenly able to mingle with the kind of people she had met in and around Eltham Palace? Where she had met _him_ , for example? The more important question was not if she was a North Korean agent, but who had made it possible for her to enter British society so easily and with such little fuss.

"As soon as he heard there'd been a problem with my passport, Sir David very kindly offered to help me," Nari fluttered her eyelashes. "He is such a nice man."

There was something in her tone that gave me pause. Had she and _Bonneville_ ..? Surely not; the man was in his seventies. Was it possible that _he_ and Nari ..? I ended the line of thought as both scurrilous and irrelevant. Nari Kim was either a North Korean spy or she was not. Despite her friendliness and charm I could see there were currents moving about below the surface. I wasn't sure what game was being played but I was certain that there was _a_ game. Assuming Nari was any good at her job, she wasn't going to simply come out and tell me what I wanted to know, therefore I needed to get her into a frame of mind where she was sufficiently relaxed to let her guard down, even a fraction. At that point, I might be able to observe and identify more specific information. And there were only two ways I could think of accomplishing this.

I could either persuade her that taking a young Englishman as a lover was a remarkably sensible idea, or I could hire her as my interior design consultant. The former option tantalised; Nari, though ten years my senior, was an exceptionally desirable woman and a physical affair with her, assuming she was interested, would be no hardship. The latter option, though less pleasurable, would be perhaps more interesting although it would cost me a fortune I did not have. I tussled briefly with the dilemma. If Nari were a spy, she would do whatever was needed to ensnare prey in her web but too overtly an approach from me might make her suspicious. If she were not a spy but simply a designer, any physical approach on my part might be construed as both excessive and insulting, either way, the physical option appeared contra-indicated. I would therefore appeal to her artistic sensibilities.

"Sir David is indeed a lovely chap," I smiled and put down my cup and saucer, linking my fingers in my lap. "He told me you were an excellent designer and I can quite see what he meant," I allowed my gaze to wander around several of the furniture groupings in the salon where we had returned to drink our tea. "I would very much like you to consider me a client for your obvious talents, though I must warn you my budget is going to be quite lean. Might you be interested in taking on such a commission?"

"Oh, _Mycroft_ ," her smile was radiant and I knew immediately I'd made the right decision. "That's a fantastic suggestion and don't worry too much about the cost; I'm positive I can help you create a _semblance_ if not the substance of a design you'll like." Nari smiled again and clapped her hands together, visibly delighted.

 _Good_ , I thought. Let the seduction begin.

###

"Well done, my boy," Bonneville lit one of his Virginian cigarettes, wafting the smoke away. "Ms Kim left a phone message on my cover number, thanking me for bringing her a potential new client who was," he paused, fixing me with his grey eyes. "And I quote, 'Charming, handsome, sophisticated and fun'," he lifted his eyebrows slightly. "Apparently, you went to see her etchings."

Still sipping my tea, I refused to rise to the bait, but smiled noncommittally and held my silence. Digesting my response, Sir David narrowed his eyes and looked sceptical.

"And what, if anything, did you discover last evening?"

"Nari Kim is a moderately talented interior designer with access to money, government support and a number of influential friends both in her country of origin, Europe and Britain," I said, leaning over and snagging a Rich Tea. "Her financial backing is significant, though whether that is the support of one extremely wealthy individual or several, or of an entire government, I am not yet able to specify. The lady is either married or in a long-term relationship, though again, I'm not yet clear on which. If she is not South Korean, then she has either lived and worked there for a number of years, or she is extremely good at faking the experience. Everything I asked her about Seoul she knew in great detail; she had certainly lived there," I paused, thinking about the conversation Nari and I had last evening as she showed me around her small collection of deco furniture at the house in Ilchester Place. There had been something else ... something in her eyes she brushed away as swiftly as it had appeared. I had seen that kind of micro-expression before and I was trying to remember where.

"Anything else?" Bonneville finished his cigarette and was looking thoughtful. "I had not known she was married, but if she's had to keep that little fact a secret from her own people, it's hardly likely to be something she'd let anyone else know," he frowned. "Do what you can to find out about her background; names, places, that sort of thing. See if she'll talk about the north at all."

"If I'm to engage the woman as my design consultant, I may actually have to buy a few things," I know I sounded apologetic but I hadn't forgotten the price tag on the two chairs. "If I'm to be able to afford the deposit on any flat, I'm not going to have the necessary financial reserves."

"Which reminds me," Bonneville reached into his desk, bringing forth a heavy folder of papers. "This is for you. There are duplicate contracts requiring your signature, as well as the results of all the relevant searches and legal immoderation the British legal system demands when one is buying or selling property these days. Since the flat is currently empty and the building is owned by a developer's group, then you may simply select the day you prefer to move in and make arrangements accordingly. A mortgage for the total value of the property has already been approved and you'll find duplicate copies of that little item in there are well," he paused, sounding rather smug. "Read everything, sign on the various dotted lines and have the lot back to me before close of business if you can. I suggest you organise your removal from the Carlton Gardens flat sometime in the next few days, if you plan on maintaining Ms Kim's interest."

Reaching back into the drawer, Sir David brought forth a set of keys, pushing them across the desk to me. "Building front door, apartment front door, also this one," he said, holding up what was clearly a complex security key, "is the lock on your new office," he paused, throwing me an uncertain look. "You had intended the room next to the master bedroom to be your office?"

Temporarily lacking the power of speech, I nodded, bereft of higher reasoning for the moment. I had only taken Bonneville to see the place yesterday and now I had the keys. They jingled as I picked them up.

"There is also the financial matter of cultivating the captivating Ms Kim," Sir David watched me carefully. "However you decide to do it, I need the particulars of her little clique sooner rather than later. You'll probably need this," he added, bringing yet another envelope out of the drawer, this one fat and rectangular. By the slight extra effort Bonneville took to push it towards me, I saw it was heavy. Holding it tight and peering inside, I saw two very thick bundles of crisp new bank notes still wrapped in their paper bands.

"There's fifty thousand," Sir David raised his eyebrows and treated me to a long-suffering expression. "This _is_ government money Mycroft, so _do_ get a receipt for everything, won't you?" He sounded mildly jaded, as if handing out large chunks of money was something he did every day.

"Do I need to sign for it?" I looked between the shiny keys in one of my hands to the wad of cash in the other. To call my mental state bemused would have been a rank understatement.

"Do you feel you _need_ to sign for it?" Sir David arched a single eyebrow and looked superior.

"Not really."

"Then use it where it will provide us with the best outcome," Bonneville sat back, resting both hands on the desk in front of him. "I very much want access to an active source within the political circle from which Nari Kim originates," he said. "I want her turned or, at the very least, I need her brought into the fold. I cannot have a loose North Korean cell operating in London unless I am privy to its workings, am I understood?"

He was. I nodded.

Lifting his hand, Bonneville wiggled his fingers at me until I took the hint to leave him in peace. Heading back to my own office, I emptied the larger envelope, reading and signing everything, keeping signed copied for myself and returning the originals back to the envelope for Sir David. Whatever authority he had used to swing things, I was now, apparently, the owner of a first-rate apartment in the heart of the British capital. I also had a bucket of ready cash, instructions to spend it in the best way possible and a beautiful woman to spend it on. The key-ring clinked discreetly in my jacket pocket. This was turning out to be a rather good day.

###

As soon as I possibly could, I rang Nari, asking her to meet me at my new digs. With Bonneville's blessing, this woman was to be my top priority and I fully intended to do whatever was needed in order to keep him happy.

The eight-minute cab ride from Whitehall took years and the traffic was beastly. Throwing a fiver at the cabbie, I managed to stop myself from bolting out the door like a greyhound at the track. And there it was, the front door of my first owned abode. In front of the door, looking gorgeous in a light summer frock, long hair down and a big smile on her face, was my own personal interior designer. My pulse thumped, though I couldn't honestly say if it was the chill of the steel key in my fingers or the warmth of Nari's smile.

"Mycroft!" she ran across and pulled the lapel of my suit until I bowed my head, at which point she grazed my cheek with her lips and I was slammed with her perfume. I have no idea of the scent's name but to this day the faintest whiff of it and my throat dries. "You called!" She sounded surprised that I had.

"Of course," I smiled down at her irrepressible enthusiasm. "I need your help," I added, unlocking a small glass door beside the larger revolving one and letting us both inside. "Come on, up to the top," I pushed the lift button and felt my heart leap with excitement.

The foyer was just as attractive as it had been yesterday, though Nari exclaimed in delight at everything for the first time. I was more interested in getting inside and seeing what Bonneville's people had done to the place; I was almost positive he would have installed more than just a new lock on what was to be my office. I opened the front door and once again stepped into the wondrous light and space I remembered from yesterday. If anything, this time was even more impressive as I knew what to expect; it felt even larger. The floor had been recently cleaned too; I saw there was no dust whatsoever around the generous skirting board, something there would have been without some form of cleaning. How interesting.

Nari had scampered off to the front of the apartment where the glass walls overlooked Pall Mall itself. I could hear a series of not-so-quiet exclamations coming from each room and the click of her shoes told me she was having a good look around. I headed for the room I had designated as my office. It was shut and locked. Finding the keys, I selected the odd-shaped security one and opened the door, almost laughing as I realised Bonneville had recreated my office for me, with large central desk and floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelves. There was a space over by the window where a couple of solid leather chairs would be perfect and I knew what my first purchase from Ms Nari Kim would be.

Rushing into the room, my new Korean designer grabbed my hand and spun me around, grinning madly.

"This place is _fantastic!_ " she pirouetted, clearly thrilled. "I have a million ideas for you, but there's somewhere I need to take you first."

"And where is that?" I couldn't help smiling; she was like a butterfly.

"One of my all-time favourite shops in Camden Town," she clapped her hands. " _Serpentynka_ , one of the most delicious, specialist art and design shops I have ever seen," she added. "There are some spectacular things there, you'll love it."

The tone in Nari's voice made me wonder if fifty-thousand was going to be enough.


	3. Caring is not an advantage

103 Bayham Street, Camden Town was in a semi-bustling avenue one street over from the borough's main thoroughfare. There were semi-industrial buildings here rather than shop-fronts and street markets. Given the traffic, it would have been quicker to take the tube. But if I was to have Nari relaxed and happy, then a taxi we would take if that was what she wanted. Oddly, she fell somewhat silent inside the big London cab, her expression, staring out through the side window was not as cheerful as it had been when she got in.

"Is everything all right?" I asked, resting a single fingertip on the back of her wrist.

"What?" Nari jumped. "Oh yes, of course," she smiled brilliantly again, clear proof, if I needed more, that she was being less than truthful. Something was making Ms Kim despondent and it was nothing she felt in a mood to share. Naturally, I determined to discover what it was.

The cab stopped outside a long-windowed modernist structure with wide double-doors in the middle of the building. Above them, a vividly painted sign. _Serpentynka,_ a name that conjured up the exotic and mysteriously foreign. Inside was an enormous cavern of a place, a vast warehouse-like edifice with at least three floors of furniture, sheer walls of artwork and, in the centre, an auction ring.

"You like the two chairs, yes?" I suspected Nari wanted to know where to begin.

"Yes, I want them," I nodded, peering around at the amazing collection of new, used and antique furniture, stacked up in a glorious confusion of narrow alleyways. Complete dining sets jostled for pride of place with rolls of old handwoven carpets; Victorian marble washstands vied with Swedish drinks trolleys. Suddenly, we reached the nirvana of period furniture-hunters; a space the size of a tennis court, covered, absolutely _heaped_ , with Art Deco.

Not being an expert by any means, I was nevertheless able to recognise the bold arching lines, the geometric stepped shapes, the clean lines and dramatic sweeping elegance that framed the 1920s artistic ethos. There was something about the whole thing that resonated with me and I saw no reason to pretend otherwise. Nari grabbed my hand and all but dragged me towards a brilliantly glossy burled walnut dining table, its golden modernist style perfectly in keeping with the mood of my new apartment.

"This," she pointed dramatically. "This is perfect for your dining area," she was emphatic. "The colour is beautiful and neutral; natural wood will go with any style you eventually choose," she walked around the rectangular shape. "Plus this one expands in case you have a party or need an increase in working space for your ... work," she wriggled her fingers as if dismissing my 'work' as something best not discussed.

The table was indeed a beauty; the rich golden-red glow of the exquisitely-figured wood something I had not seen before. "How much?" I wanted to get a feel for how quickly I'd burn through Sir David's stockpile. The price card said £250 which, for an elegant object such as this seemed a steal. Nodding, I found it hard not to smile as Nari whipped out a notebook and started compiling a list of purchases. Within an hour, there was an entire page of carefully catalogued items, before she pointed me toward one of the interior cliff-faces decked out with all manner of art.

"What do you like, Mycroft?" for a moment, she sounded so plaintive that I frowned and turned, catching the same expression on her face I'd seen the previous evening. Reaching a decision and throwing most of my plans out of the window, I took the notebook from her hand and ripped out the filled page. Walking to a sales desk tenanted by three less than fully occupied sales personnel; I removed a wad of cash from my inner pocket, carefully counting out five thousand pounds which I set before their astonished gazes. I also laid down the page of recommended purchases each with a catalogue number noted in Nari's neat hand. Finally, I gave them my card, on the back of which I quickly wrote my new address.

"I'd like all of these things cleaned and shipped to this address by tomorrow lunchtime, please," I ignored their apparent bewilderment. "This should be sufficient payment for the moment, though if I am satisfied with the service of this establishment, I shall instruct my interior designer here," I bent my head towards Nari. "To return for future purchases." Waiting while a receipt was laboriously written out, I offered my confused companion an arm and walked her through the doors and around the corner to a quiet coffee shop I'd noted earlier. Sitting in a shaded corner, I organised tea and sandwiches, before I returned, clasping my fingers together as I leaned forward, capturing her gaze with my eyes.

"I know you're frightened," I began as gently as I could. "I know you are very worried about something and that the situation is eating at you inside," I looked deep into her suddenly widening eyes. "I want to help you but I cannot do anything unless I have a clear picture of the whole problem. Once I know the extent of the situation you are facing, I can offer alternative courses of action and help you decide what to do. Once you have decided what you want to do, I can help you do it."

Nari's eyes were saucer-wide as she sat, shocked into silence. I let her adjust in her own time as the tea and sandwiches arrived, pouring her a cup and placing it between her icy fingers.

"Have some tea and something to eat," I kept my voice low and soft so that she would relax, which she did in slow increments.

"Who _are_ you?" she whispered, her stare never leaving my face. "Who do you work for?"

"Drink." I advised carefully and sipped my own tea. Sighing briefly, Nari did as I suggested, the hot liquid warming and easing the tension in her shoulders.

"How do you know these things?" she asked in a low voice. "Nobody knows this," she paused, shaking her head and hunting for words. "I need to know who you are working for or I cannot say anything." Realising that Nari's fear was less of getting into trouble and more of being discovered by the wrong people, I gave her a conspiratorial smile.

"I do not work for the people who want to hurt you," I said, watching her expression. _No, that wasn't quite right_. "The people who want to hurt your ... husband?" I tried, reaching out a hand to calm her again as she jerked back in shock. "It's all right, Nari," I spoke soothingly, bringing her hands back to hold the warm cup of tea. "Drink and you'll feel better. I'm here to help, not make things worse."

"You can't help," Nari shook her head again, clearly miserable. "Nobody can help."

"I think you might be surprised at what I can do," I risked a small touch to the back of her hand. "Please tell me why you are so frightened."

Nari sipped her tea for several long silent minutes. "Sir David is correct," she said, finally. "I am a spy, of sorts," she looked across the table at me and smiled wanly. "Though not a terribly good one, I'm afraid."

"A spy for the DPRK?" I asked softly.

She nodded. "It is all because I speak such good English, you see," she sounded heartbreakingly sad. "I said I would not, that they could not make me," she faltered into silence.

"But then they took your husband?" I asked, already knowing the answer. A standard, if rather brutal leverage tactic employed by just about every regime in the world. I hadn't made use of such a ploy yet, though realistically it was probably only a matter of time before I did, or at least the threat of such an action. Unfortunately, in the type of work I was learning how to do, the end often did justify the means.

Nari accepted my handkerchief as tears filled her eyes. "I am told to do terrible things," she whispered. "Awful things I do not want to do, but I must or he will die." I knew with a horrible awareness that her husband might be dead already, but it would be madness to cross that bridge before it arrived.

"What kind of things have you been instructed to do, Nari?" I kept my voice soft, not wanting to startle her into silence now that she appeared to be opening up. Wiping her eyes, she sipped her tea, calming herself .

"I am told to make friends with people in important positions," she spoke more normally. "People who are important politicians or who work in big government departments in Europe and London and Brussels," she added. "I am told to make friends with these people and listen to everything I hear when I am with them; to read their phone messages if I can or to trick them into embarrassing situations if possible."

"Is that what you were told to do with Sir David?" I heard my voice grow a fraction harder despite efforts to the contrary. "Have you been told to make friends with him? _Good_ friends?" Nari nodded silently, hiding her eyes behind my white handkerchief.

"And me?" I asked. "Have you been specifically told to make friends with _me?_ "

"Not by name," Nari blinked long lashes glistening with tears. "But anyone who works in Whitehall and who is important or powerful ..." she wept silently into my handkerchief.

"Do you know where your husband is being kept?" It would be a starting place, though not much of a one. I knew we had Korean and Chinese agents who regularly risked their lives and freedom to traverse unmapped woodlands and swift rivers into the darkest country in the world. It might be nothing, but it never hurt to ask.

"Somewhere around Wŏnsan, I think I heard it said," Nari sniffed and dried her eyes. Wŏnsan was a port city on the eastern coast, a busy naval base but also a place for summer tourism. Easier to reach by sea than land.

"If I am to be able to help you and possibly try and free your husband, I will need to have as much information from you as I can," I said, leaning forward again. "Are you willing to talk to one of my people and answer their questions?"

Frightened but lacking other options, Nari nodded. "But not in an office or those who watch me might become suspicious," she looked thoughtful. "I could go to your flat and talk to someone there?"

It wasn't the best alternative, but better than nothing. "It will be arranged," I said, allowing a smile to lift the sides of my mouth as the idea of her being watched sat uneasily in my gut. "But now you must be very brave and act as if we haven't had this conversation," I said, patting the back of her hand. "We should go back into the furniture place so that anyone keeping an eye on you will know that all is well. Are you game?"

"Yes." Breathing deep, Nari finished her tea, wiped her eyes and sat straighter, a faint smile once again shaping her mouth. Taking another long breath, she stood, brushed herself down and stepped around the table to take my hand, not my arm this time. If she was under surveillance, and I made a mental note to keep my eyes peeled for any sign of it, then our growing 'friendship' would be visible to all and sundry. Making our way back around the corner to _Serpentynka_ , I walked us both back to the stash of deco furniture we'd been exploring earlier.

"I would like to buy the pair of leather chairs you showed me last night," I told her. "For my new office. I will need two other things and would value your advice," I paused, expectantly.

"Yes, yes of course," Nari looked up at me, eyebrows raised.

"I want a coffee table to go with the chairs and I want a single piece of art for the main wall opposite the desk," I said, lifting my gaze back to the three-story high wall of art works in front of us. "Something big and strong. Perhaps you could suggest something from here?" I waved my hand vaguely towards the mass of oils, acrylics and watercolours. "Something that would suit my mood."

"And what is your mood?" her natural optimism bubbling back up, Nari flashed a shy smile in my direction. "Something serious or something pretty?"  
"Something suitable," I grinned, pointing her towards the furniture. "Go and find me a coffee table while I stand here and pretend to know something about art."

Throwing me a grateful smile, I watched as she moved to look at a collection of small tables. When I was sure she would be staying in sight, I turned to the enormous display of portraits and landscapes hanging up in the air. To be honest, I wasn't worried about a painting, but if it gave Nari an excuse to return to my flat for a talk ... Still staring at the confusion of paintings and ensuring nobody was in earshot, I pulled out my phone and called Bonneville. After explaining the situation, his response was direct. On no account was Nari Kim to be alone until she had been interrogated and debriefed.

I saw with some relief that she was still mulling over furniture and, by the expression on her face, she seemed a little less distraught than before. Folding my arms, I turned back to gaze upwards at the north face of _Serpentynka's_ art mountain. Though I was no aesthete, there were colours and shades and images of things I found slightly pleasing and I craned my neck looking for something that might fit the bill.

"Mycroft, over here!" Nari waved as I turned, a pleased look on her face. Abandoning my art-search for the moment, I strolled over, keeping my hands in my trouser pockets as I'd been told this made me less intimidating. Following Nari's pointed finger, I saw a round coffee table no more than eighteen-inches in diameter. In beautifully inlaid timbers, the subtle hues of exquisite wood veneer described the stylised shape of a butterfly, its wings fully expanded to cover almost the entire circular surface, with each of its colours delicately accented by a different shade. There was also a patina of age that lay over the whole thing, rendering it special and unique. I would not have previously considered myself a lover of such goods, but I was discovering a hidden streak of appreciation for great style. Perhaps an interior designer's guidance was not the worst thing in the world to have.

"It needs a specialist clean," Nari lifted the little table up on top of a nearby larger table covered with a thick cloth. "Once the wood has been properly treated, you won't believe the colours and shades of the veneer," she looked up at me. "This is a lovely thing."

Yes, she was a lovely thing; I felt strangely uncomfortable at the situation in which Nari Kim found herself and how I espoused a system partly responsible for keeping her in it.

"It's beautiful," I nodded. "Please arrange for it to go to the appropriate restorer; you know far more about these things than I do."

Visibly delighted, Nari smiled knowingly. "In that case," she said, handing the table to me to carry, "you really do need to see this." She walked me a little way across the floor, before turning me around and pointing up at a moderately large painting hanging not ten feet away. My first impression was that it was filthy, but realising Nari wouldn't have pointed out anything unworthy, I stepped closer and tried to see beyond the grime and dust.

It was another butterfly, but whereas the one on the table was in shades of brown against a dark greenish-brown background, the painting was of a much larger creature, with outspread wings the shade and texture of woodland velvet resting against a background of faded sepia and old maps. Lustrous and elongated, the insect glowed beneath the painting's coat of dirt and old smoke, the fragile apex of each hindwing a curving symmetrical sweep of precision. It needed reframing and cleaning, of course, but with the right treatment, it would be perfect. I nodded, unsure for once of the right words.

"Then reach up and get it," Nari pulled an old chair into place, holding it still as I stepped up and unhooked the painting from its niche. Taking our purchases back to the same desk as before, there was only one man this time, an older fellow looking very pleased with life.

"I came by earlier," I said, handing the man another of my cards. "I apologise for any inconvenience, but I'd like both of these items added to the list of purchases, though we'd prefer to take these with us today." Upon reading my name on the card, the man's smile became positively sunny as he saw I had returned for more.

"Of _course_ , Mr Holmes," he beamed. "Would you like me to have them wrapped for you, or shall I have them taken out to your car? The boys are already working on your earlier order and we'll have everything out to you by lunchtime tomorrow as requested."

Carrying the little table and the old painting, Nari and I once again made our way out onto the street. Knowing now that she was probably being watched, that perhaps we both were being watched, I kept a careful lookout for anything odd, but sensed nothing untoward. If anyone was watching, they were very good at it.

###

I had the cabbie wait outside the restorer's studio as I lugged and Nari took the lead. Both the table and the painting could be cleaned, restored in the few places of slight damage and returned to new. It would take about a week in total, as the required work wasn't that major. Leaving a cash deposit and another of my cards, the next stop was my soon-to-be-home in Pall Mall. Going up in the lift this third time was no less thrilling than before, though at least this time I felt slightly more adult about the sensation. Unlocking my very own front door made me realise, somewhat ruefully, that the first official use of my flat was to be one of espionage. Apparently, not even my more private joys were above the shadow of my work.

It was immediately obvious that someone had been here in my absence as there was now a minor _mis-en-sc_ _è_ _ne_ in the living room area: a cheap table and several ordinary chairs had been set up for a very specific and all-too obvious purpose. As soon as Nari came into the flat, her eyes grew wide and she stopped dead, painfully aware I was about to ask her to do something she had been doing her level best to avoid.

Her face had paled and there was a place just above her jaw where a tiny muscle flickered. Needing to take her away from these thoughts. I reached down and took her hand. Tugging gently, I pulled her towards the front of the apartment where the walls of sheer, heavy glass let in the afternoon light.

"Tell me what I should have in here," I said, bringing her into the master bedroom and holding her hand through my arm in as casual a way as I could. A relatively large space, I only knew I needed the basics; a bed, somewhere to hang my few expensive suits and perhaps a chest of drawers to house the endless supply of socks my mother believed I needed. Momentarily distracted, Nari stared at the wall that reached beyond the ensuite bathroom.

"What's behind there?" she said, pointing. The far side of the wall was home to a tall cupboard at the end of the hall and which used to hold the old hot water tank. "Because if you could put a door in there," Nari indicated a spot about three feet to the left of the ensuite door. "You could make yourself a walk-in wardrobe which means you wouldn't need to buy a large, free-standing piece of furniture and which would then open up the space in here to be more creative with the remainder of your pieces," she added, raising her eyebrows at me. As I probably wouldn't have considered this until after I'd moved in, I nodded in appreciation. It was a clever move and I would see about getting it done.

The small phone she kept in her bag started to ring and she looked at me apologetically as she moved away to take the call. To give her privacy, I stepped out of the bedroom to examine the actual size of the hall cupboard and estimate how much additional room I might access if I followed Nari's ingenious plan.

I heard swift footsteps and the opening of the front door. Stepping back into the hall, I saw the door was hanging open and I broke into a run. If Nari was making a run for it, then the phone call had probably been the cause. I scowled; despite my job, I had no wish for her to be more distressed than she was.

The lift wasn't in operation, so she had taken the wide marble staircase, a perilous escape in heeled shoes. I followed, able to take steps two at a time, unencumbered by any such problem. I caught up with her as she pulled open the unlocked front door, dashing out onto the pavement, stopping short as she almost ran into Bonneville himself.

Sir David looked at her speculatively as he closed the rear passenger door of his car, his eyes lifting to me as I barrelled out of the door immediately behind her.

"Problem?" he asked, his gaze moving between us.

" _Please!_ I _have_ to go ... I cannot stay here with you!" Nari's voice was strained and frightened, her bag slipping from her shoulder to the ground as she turned backwards and forwards, seeking a way out.

"Nari ..." I held out the small, though surprisingly weighty bag. "Sir David and I are here to help you but we need to know as much as you can tell us about your husband's situation before we can do anything," I despised myself as I said the words knowing in all likelihood it was already too late for help. "Please come back inside and sit down. You're overwrought and upset. Please come back inside." Bonneville remained silent, observing but not yet participating in the unfolding drama.

As if her strings had suddenly been cut, Nari drooped, sighing heavily. Nodding almost imperceptibly, she took her bag and re-entered the building. Sir David remained silent, handing me a carrier bag filled, I suspected, with the makings of tea. We walked to the lift in silence.

"Why don't you sit down and I'll make some tea," I strode into the kitchen feeling wretched. Unpacking the tiny kettle, paper cups and other essential ingredients of the British panacea I hoped that, with luck, Nari's longer relationship with Sir David might be useful. I doubted my involvement would be much help at this point but listened to the sound of soft voices as I returned clutching paper cups of steaming tea. It wasn't the elegant daily little ritual I'd come to appreciate in Bonneville's office, but it would do.

As I approached the table, I saw Nari slide her phone back into her opened bag. As I placed a paper cup in front of both she and Sir David, she jumped nervously, knocking the bag to the floor once again.

"I shall have to buy you one you can wear messenger-style," I smiled carefully as I lifted the bag back up to the table, nodding to Bonneville as I did. His eyes flicked to the third empty chair; clearly he wanted me involved. I headed back to the kitchen to collect my own cup of tea; it might only be a prop in the forthcoming discussion but I was learning the value of props, even one so humble as a paper cup.

It was only as I held the flimsy container in my hand that I realised something was wrong with Nari's bag. It had been noticeably heavy when I retrieved it from the pavement and, even though I had seen her drop her phone back inside, it had still been lighter when I picked it up the second time. Not a great deal lighter, but still a significant difference. This suggested she had removed something from the bag when she returned the phone, but I had seen her hand and there had been nothing immediately visible. Which meant whatever she had taken from her handbag was small but disproportionately heavy for its size ... not a pen, not a comb, but something sufficiently long and thin to be hidden in her small hand.

_Long and thin and heavy ..._

Dropping the tea, I flew back into the living area of the flat. "Watch out, she's got a _knife!_ " I shouted, reaching out for Nari, even as she came to her feet; a shining flick knife suddenly visible in her fingers.

" _I told you to let me go!_ " she screamed, taking a step closer to Sir David who was already rising to his feet. He could not move swiftly enough to avoid the downward thrust of Nari's hand which had reached the apex of its swing and was beginning its deadly descent. I acted without conscious thought, throwing myself between Sir David's body and the glittering knife.

The pain of being stabbed is infinitely strange. There is the frightening thud of impact, immediately followed by the ghastly sensation of one's flesh being cut; instant messages of pain flashed throughout the body by offended nerves. I felt myself falling to the floor, too shocked at the knowledge I'd actually been stabbed to concern myself over the details of the matter. The only thought I recall with any real clarity was that I'd need a new waistcoat as the blade had gone clean through this one. I didn't even feel the floor when I landed, my eyes tracking static table legs and the slow-motion movement of the human variety. There were noises ... sounds, I am certain, though of what or made by whom, I could not say. I closed my eyes as consciousness faded.

###

The hospital doctor told me I was fortunate. Had the knife been a half-inch higher, I would have been skewered through the heart but as it was, my rib took the brunt of the blow, a small chip showing up in the X-ray. There had been a fair bit of blood, but the actual wound was relatively small, requiring no more than eight stitches with the promise that the scar would be barely noticeable.

Bonneville had, of course, insisted on my recovering fully in a private clinic. My wound was sore rather than painful and within a day of bed-rest I was bored to tears. Accepting my word I would not overdo things if I were to return to my flat, Sir David delivered my keys and an embarrassed apology.

"Most unfortunate situation," he said, looking sombre. "All dealt with now, of course. Turns out Ms Kim's watchers had grown suspicious of her recent movements and decided her usefulness to them was at its end. They wanted to ensure she'd be taken care of by us, one way or another," Bonneville sniffed, his indignation plain.

"Is she alright?" I asked, feeling the pull of the stitches as I stood properly upright for the first time in two days.

"Deported back to South Korea," Bonneville frowned heavily. "Though I doubt the South Koreans will want anything to do with her either."

Poor Nari. Used as a pawn by all sides. I was disgusted with myself.

###

My refusal to press charges helped, I think. Nari had been arrested as soon as she got off the place in Seoul, but there was little anyone could do if no official complaint was made. Likewise, there was no record anywhere of her more ... covert activities in Britain. Let the Korean authorities think what they liked; at least I knew I was not responsible for making her situation any worse.

I was working from home in my new office several days later, when Bonneville's recently-installed concierge, a retired MI5 employee, called on the internal phone; a package awaited in the foyer. Dropping what I was doing, I tried to remember what else I was expecting; Sir David having arranged things in my flat, as well as having all my personal stuff packed up and brought over from the apartment in Carlton Gardens.

There were actually two packages; one, a box about two-foot square and the second, obviously a painting. Carrying them back up in the lift, I returned to my office where the two leather chairs Nari had sold me held pride of place in one corner. Carefully, I opened the box and pulled the small table out from within its nest of crushed newspaper.

The butterfly glowed. A beautiful gift of a thing; elegant, charming and immensely stylish. The table slotted between the chairs and looked as if it had been made for them. I snipped the cord binding the painting's wrappings and carefully pulled the several layers of white paper away from the newly-restored finish.

Oh god. It was a lovely thing. I had no idea who the artist was, but the lustrous work was incredible and I knew I'd never see the like again. I leaned it across one of the chairs, reminding myself to organise its proper installation. It deserved no less than the best. I wished Nari could have seen it but she had dropped out of circulation and now nobody could tell me where she was. Staring at the glowing butterfly was a bittersweet experience of beauty and infinite sadness.

I sighed bleakly and returned to my work.


End file.
